


A Dark Elderberry Place

by ActualBlanketGremlin



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Archaeologist!Brian, Bog Body!Freddie, Bog Body!John, Bog Body!Roger, Brian needs a nap, But you know what? I'm proud of it, Does it count as major character death if they don't stay dead?, It's me ya boi back at it again with the bog bodies, John needs noise-cancelling headphones, M/M, This fic can fit so much obscure history in it, This has an audience of maybe two, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 17,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualBlanketGremlin/pseuds/ActualBlanketGremlin
Summary: Brian May has his whole career ahead of him. At 24 he's finishing his Ph.D in archaeology at the top of his class and he has a steady (if part-time) job--but what will happen when he awakens his latest (rather charming, once you got to know him) find and they have to dig deep to thwart a misplaced ancient rivalry?
Relationships: John Deacon & Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Brian May
Comments: 228
Kudos: 70





	1. In Which Discoveries Of All Kinds Are Made

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Grauballe Man" by Seamus Heaney  
> For iamnotbrianmay and everyone who's been supportive on Discord
> 
> Well folks, this is that thing I've been obsessing over since December. This has little to no resemblance to my previous Queen bog body fic, I just really go wild for the Iron Age. What can I say?   
> This is the culmination of around 15 years' interest in bog bodies, so feel free to ask for clarification if I mention something offhand that you aren't sure about. I genuinely am not sure what's common knowledge and what I just think is common knowledge because I saw it in a documentary 10 years ago. That said, enjoy!

Brian's head snapped to one side. _Did that--?_ No, it couldn't have moved. The body on the table had been dead for at least a thousand years. He thought. They were still waiting for the lab results to come back, but the fragment of remarkably well-preserved cloth would tell them for sure when Bog Body JD051 had been killed and sunk into the waters just north of Oadby.

Brian had seen bog bodies before in museums, where they had seemed calm and peaceful, like they had fallen asleep and the waters had risen up around them. This one was different. It didn't have the serene expression of the others. Whatever--or whoever--had killed this man, he hadn't gone down without a fight.

His face was twisted into an expression of agony, mouth open and eyes screwed shut. His forearms bore defensive wounds, likely from the fight that had killed him, the top of his head had been cracked open, and his throat was slit from ear to ear for good measure. Whoever had done the job wasn’t taking any chances.

It was Brian's job to try and see whether he couldn't find out how that had happened, and what was different about this body that had preserved it so well. It was perfect--even the typical brown, leathery skin turned out to be peat covering pale, almost translucent flesh when the body had been cleaned.

At first, the builders who had found the body had thought it was a woman who had gone missing some 15 years previously. They were excavating close to a woodlot in order to put in a foundation for a new mansion when one of them had almost sliced the body’s foot off and the police had been called.

The young man they discovered proved to be full of contradictions. He was obviously very old—his clothing was closer in style to the Bayeux Tapestry than a Sears catalogue—but who was he? What was he doing buried in the ground? Why hadn’t he decomposed more?

Brian had been called in specifically by the National Museum of History to look into the matter. He had been flattered and grateful for the opportunity—Brian was finishing a Ph.D on the religions of Iron Age Britain and how it varied by geographical region. This could be the key to his thesis!

Bog bodies were generally speculated to have been human sacrifices by members of a pre-Roman religion. They tended to be identified by an “overkill” death—hanging, blunt force trauma, and slitting the throat, for example—and were generally thought to be at least 1500 years old. Now that equipment such as spectrographs and radio carbon dating had been invented, they would be able to get an incredibly precise date on when JD051 had been killed.

 _There it was again!_ JD051 had definitely moved, straightened its arm!

Brian’s eyes shot open as the arm shot out, bracing against the lip of the table. And then the other one moved too, bracing against the other side; and the body-- _did it count as a "body" if it was still moving?_ \--sat up jerkily, like it-- _he?_ \--hadn't gotten used to moving yet. Brian felt a chill down his spine as the blood drained out of his face. They hadn’t gone over this situation in graduate school!

_"Hhh--" "Hhhe--"_ It spoke in a thin, soft voice, cracking with disuse.

Brian wasn't about to stick around and find out what it was going to say.


	2. In Which Academics Don't Have Athletic Stamina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local graduate student working the night shift isn't thinking clearly, news at 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone get this man a coffee. Or a nap. Or both.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos! I didn't think this would get much interest, but you guys made my day! This one and the next one are gonna be shorter, but I should be able to get them both up today. We'll be hearing from John's point of view soon, which is going to be interesting!

_'How did this happen to me?'_ Brian thought as he ran through the abandoned archaeology department.

One minute, he had been contemplating life and death in ancient Britain, and the next he was being chased by some kind of undead bog creature! It moved in a jerky, unnatural way that was really unnerving.

' _At least it's slow... But how to stop it?'_ he wondered, pausing as he rounded a corner. His legs may be longer than the creature's, but Brian wasn't used to going into a dead sprint at the drop of a hat.

 _'Why was it moving? What had brought it back to life?'_ After about thirty seconds of heavy panting to catch his breath, Brian realized he couldn't hear the stumbling attempts of the creature to walk.

Had it gotten lost? Maybe it collapsed, returning to the grave? Was it looking for some artifact in the Pre-Roman section? No such luck. Brian peeked around the corner and came face-to-face with the creature.

Should he call it "the creature" in his mind? It was looking more and more like a man, if you ignored the fact it had been stone dead not an hour before. Soon it might be able to pass relatively unnoticed on the street—and what a thought that was!

"Ahhh!!" Brian yelled, backpedaling so quickly he fell down.

JD051 yelled in response, its eyes also widening (in fear? With the thrill of the chase? Brian couldn’t help but marvel that its eyes had been incredibly well preserved, even down to their greyish green color), and it resumed its pursuit.

Its movements were smoother now, and Brian realized it was working the rigor mortis out of its limbs.

Would it be able to run? He didn't want to think about that.


	3. In Which Brian Is An Unreliable Narrator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finally takes a nap!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the follow-up to last chapter! The next few won't be posted as quickly, I want to at least try to pace myself, but these two were written together and for some reason, didn't really "work" when I tried to make them a single chapter. So here we are!

Brian nearly slid past the Ancient Rome shelves in his hurry. Hadn't a team found a gladius the other day?

That was right! He remembered Tim coming in, proudly bearing the well-preserved sword in its archival box. It should still be in storage, waiting for its display card!

Ancient problems might require ancient solutions, and if Brian’s theory about JD051’s age was correct, he might be afraid of someone holding a gladius on principal. It was worth a shot, anyway. What else could he do?

Brian quickly found the box and tore open the lid before a thought hit him like a speeding bullet-- _Professor Sheffield is going to kill me if he finds out about this!_

Scenes flashed through his head of his doctoral advisor fingerprinting the handle and going over security tapes with a fine-toothed comb and kicking Brian out of the program for destroying not one, but two priceless artifacts--including the first bog body found in 20 years, and the first ever of its condition--as Brian reeled back.

He could hear JD051 in the corridor, he was getting closer, Brian couldn't just do nothing! He saw a flash of white on the shelf and _\--of course!_ What was the first thing he had been taught when the professors had let the class into the archives? Always handle artifacts with white gloves! And besides, that way, if something happened to the sword, they wouldn’t know it was him! It was the perfect plan.

JD051 rounded the corner and Brian scrambled for the shelving unit. He was so caught up in the need for the gloves next to the archival boxes that he didn't notice the one on the ground--until he slipped on it.

**BAM**

Brian's head cracked into the sturdy metal unit. The last thing he saw before his swimming vision faded to black was a (rather concerned-looking) ancient face looming over him.


	4. In Which Context Is Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Edit the next chapter" I said. "This probably isn't going to be long" I said. "Wait, what's that plot hole?"  
> 850 words and two sub-plot setups later, here we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we'll see what's happened with John! Of my pre-written chapters, this one has changed the most from the drabble I posted on Discord.  
> A few notes: Bard and Ovate are the slightly lower ranks leading up to Druid.  
> Strictly speaking, the name "John" wouldn't have arrived in England in this time period, and in earlier drafts he was called "Jehan", but in the editing process I realized that literally nobody would care. So I changed it back.

It had been a very long day. Sure, all the days were long now that Midsummer was approaching, but for this farmer, today--the whole week, really--had been particularly taxing.

Their chieftain was dying. This wasn't exactly a surprise; he had led their community through many years of peace with their neighbors and survived a handful of battles when diplomacy had failed. He had been their leader for as long as the farmer could remember, and everyone had to die eventually. The gods were clearly calling him to join them, and not even the great Hardred of Norfield could refuse.

And so, in the last year of his life, the Druids were called for. They came from all over, from Powys to the west, Deira to the north, and even Wessex to the south. All in all, there numbered nearly 30 newcomers (mostly Druids, but a handful of Ovates and Bards had joined their ranks) to pay their respects.

It fell to the locals to feed and house the newcomers. They did it gladly, Hardred had been a great man, and they felt that if they could give back in his time of need (as he had done for each of them), they would.

Completely by accident, it came to pass that the farmer rose to new significance in the community. John had a bit of land that he had always considered a nuisance--it couldn't be plowed and cultivated, and when he discovered it, the soggy stretch had caught hold of his foot and refused to let go. Damp and slightly limping from having lost a shoe, he had written it and the surrounding land off as a loss. Now, apparently, that bog would be the chieftain's last resting place.

The Druids had done a survey of the area and chosen their spot for the burial. All of them converged on the farm, praying and chanting and drumming up a storm. The air crackled with Magic and Significance as they prepared the site, and John--who had already been a devout man--felt as if he was swimming through the air as he went about his day-to-day tasks. Everything seemed to be _more_. The colors were more vivid, his meals were more intense (that could be both a blessing and a curse, he discovered), and his dreams were clear as a bell.

The Druids generally kept to themselves, having made camp in the woods just on the edge of his property. Occasionally one or two would come to his roundhouse to ask for eggs, or to share in his daily tasks in return for him letting them camp on his field, or once, to ask if he had any spare livestock.

One in particular seemed to have an interest in John, coming twice a day sometimes. Brys (as the Druid’s name turned out to be) had never been outside of his home in Powys before this trip. He was young to have reached his high ranking (his parents were very proud), but as the days wore on and more and more preparations were put in place, Brys was getting homesick. Even though the farmer was younger than the Druid, he did what he could to help. The two quickly became fast friends.

It didn't take long for a rivalry to spring up between John and a few of his fellow townsfolk. Why should his land be chosen? How did he gain this honor? Surely, if the Druids wanted a muddy patch of land, they could choose someone with a little more social standing in the community.

One in particular, a merchant that was often away on business, seemed especially bitter. He had a good bit more land than the farmer did, why couldn’t the Druids build a proper burial mound truly befitting a chieftain of his standing and renown?

Meanwhile, John was not resting easy. The longer the Druids laid their spells on his bog, he began having terrifying nightmares. While he was having them, they were impossible to tell from reality, but when John woke (in the middle of the night, as he often did) he couldn’t recall what had frightened him so much. Perhaps he should consult with Brys, the next time he visited; or else the community’s healer…

When the farmer came into town complaining of headaches and nightmares, the merchant was waiting. He plied him with drink until John gave up the exact location of the burial site and agreed to take the merchant there.

The night was dark and still, for once the Druids had ceased their drumming early and gone to sleep. Nobody saw the pair arrive and nobody saw what happened.

The farmer only recalled the events of that night in snatches. The glint of an axe in the moonlight. Punching the man's nose in. Pain in his forearms. Hands around his throat. Kicking out at something solid and taking a gloriously long breath. Biting through something stringy and the corresponding howl of pain. Being hit over the head.

Falling.

Water.

Darkness.

Peace.


	5. In Which John Wakes Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the modern world. He isn't impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the follow-up to yesterday's chapter! This is the last from John's POV for a while, it'll be back to Brian tomorrow.

That was the last the farmer knew for a very long time.

It was like he was floating and falling at once; sinking down and rising up once more.

The darkness lent itself to introspection and he finally was able to remember his nightmares. They had been of being buried alive—but the farmer wasn’t exactly alive, was he?

Surely he was dead.

Was this the afterlife?

Was he stuck in the veil between worlds?

Would he be here forever?

There was a thick pressure on him that felt like a heavy blanket. Maybe he’d sleep for a while…

It hadn’t seemed like very long, in hindsight. That was the trouble with dreamless sleep, it was hard to tell exactly how long it went on for. The next thing John knew, there was a bright, blinding light shining onto him and people shouting. He screwed his eyes shut, which helped, but didn’t completely block out the chaos. He was being brushed with stiff-bristled brushes (that scratched and ached after so long without contact) and lifted out of the ground (a part of him screamed with rage— _how dare they disturb him?_ ) and onto a stiff (wooden?) board that was carried a short distance.

These people (they must be people, who else could it be?) were speaking a strange language and the farmer wished for the first time that he had traveled more. He had been happy at home and hadn’t felt the need to leave the community—perhaps if he had, he could tell what was being said. Some of the words were vaguely familiar, they had the same shape as words the farmer was familiar with, but they still managed to be almost completely indecipherable.

Eventually, the farmer was taken out of whatever cart he had been loaded onto and put into a chamber where he was washed with gentle streams of water and gentler hands. He let himself relax then, open his eyes to have a look around.

The chamber was dimly lit (thank the gods), but he was not alone. A man sat at a nearby table, pouring over some kind of stiff, white material joined in the middle. It didn’t look like cloth, could it be the bark of some great tree? It must have been very old to produce such wide, even sheets. Unless it was a cloth after all?

John felt another headache coming on, so he focused on the man instead. He was hunched over the table, long, curly hair falling in front of his face. Something about the man was familiar, though the farmer couldn’t put his finger on it for a moment.

The man shifted, pushing the hair on one side of his face behind an ear and resting his head on his hand, and it hit him—this man was the spitting image of Brys! Maybe he could tell John what had happened!

He tried to sit up—clumsily at first, John must have been asleep a long time to have become so uncoordinated—and ask the Druid a question, but his vocal cords were dry (metaphorically) from disuse, and the Druid ran. John followed. He'd catch up eventually. He needed answers.


	6. In Which John Do'guid Brian An Se Grellach Dulluid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how you were wondering how they were going to communicate? Wonder no more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short one this time, but a goodie all the same.   
> John is speaking a mix of Old Irish and Proto-Germanic, for those of you clever-clogs who want to look up the words for yourselves.   
> Tomorrow, we set up to meet a certain chaotic blond and I scramble to write what comes after that! Enjoy!

Brian came to rather slowly. He had been laid out on his back, presumably by the rather concerned-looking man looking down at him. Wait, hold on--! His eyes widened in fear and Brian pushed himself back as quickly as he could.  
“Ey! Brys naicc tafann dorisi!”

JD-051 could speak? What language was that? It sounded like a cross between Gaelic and some kind of bastardized German.

“Dat,” he gestured exaggeratedly at Brian, “ocus sa” and then at himself, as if he were talking to a toddler, Brian realized, “coicele. Eh?” he finished with a wide smile that showed off the small gap in his front teeth.

Brian looked at him blankly. He could piece together some of what JD-051 was saying, mostly from the hand gestures (his brain was working overtime, this was obviously some long-dead language, and a part of him desperately wanted to change his thesis to studying it), but he had no way of knowing how to answer. They didn’t even know how old he was, the carbon dating results hadn’t come back yet.

Brian’s silence was obviously irritating the other man, who rolled his eyes (even the soft tissues of the eyes were preserved perfectly, it was like he hadn’t even been dead an hour ago! Fascinating! What could be different about that patch of bog--no, don’t think about that, focus, Brian!) and muttered “Wodaz imm dich!”

That jolted Brian out of his shock. Wodaz was the Proto-Germanic root of the later Anglo-Saxon god Wodan. It had been thought that Wodan had been brought to England when the Saxons conquered the Anguls, but the use of a Proto-Germanic word dated JD051 to at least 400 years before that. Not only was that an interesting gap in modern understanding of ancient Britain, it also gave Brian something to work with. He wracked his brain for what he had learned in his Linguistics class last semester.

 _“Uh—uh—name… mine, is Brian. And yours?”_ he asked with a hopeful smile.

JD051 looked surprised. _“John. Why did you run?”_

_“You scared me. I think—thought. I thought you were dead.”_

_“I’m not?”_ John asked, incredulous. He let out a short laugh, which quickly caught on. His laughter was infectious, and Brian started to laugh as well, until they were both nearly crying.

This was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.


	7. In Which Experts Are Consulted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's very interesting, you see. Quite a lot of people are interested in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, a bit longer this time! Winifred is such a badass, I love her as a character. Big Mom Energy, 10/10. Are you a grad student? She's your mom now. Are you a centuries-old artifact? She's going to call you baby and apologize when she has to move you. She's everybody's mom.

Brian and John grew to be close friends over the next few weeks. While Brian was examining “JD051” for the cause of his exquisite preservation and reasons his body had ended up in the bog, he chatted softly with the other man.

John wasn’t used to much of anything to do with modern life. He thought the lights were too bright; the traffic was too noisy; he missed his friends (and why did that comment send Brian’s stomach into flip-flops?). John didn’t know why he was still alive any more than Brian did, and that meant specialists would have to be called in.

Some of them came to Imperial College to examine this “Missing Link To Ancient Britain” (as the press had taken to calling John), but not all of them could.

There was a specialist in Cornwall that was an expert on Bronze Age textiles that requested to see the body in person. Brian and John were shipped off south to try and get an official date for how old he was, since nobody would believe Brian if he tried to say the miracle bog body had told him.

Dr. Winnifred Meddows was professionally polite to Brian, though she had a motherly look to her. She was incredibly gentle with John’s clothing, keeping up a running commentary for her recorder.

“This is really quite fascinating, Mr. May. I don’t suppose you’d think to pay attention to this, but look—” She held up the hem of John’s tunic, exposing a sliver of skin. Brian found it surprisingly difficult to look at the cloth.

“If you look closely at your own shirt, you can see the weave of the fabric. Factory-woven textiles aren’t as tight as historical hand-woven fabrics, that’s why they fray if you rip them. The level of craftsmanship on this is extraordinary! Look—it’s just cut at the bottom here, where modern seamstresses would have a hem. This is fine wool too, I’d bet my tenure on it. Whoever this man was, he must have been very important in his community. And the color—this shade of blue would have been very hard to come by in the Iron Age. He must have been quite wealthy. With the pattern _here_ and the texture along the neckline just there, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was associated with the Druids. I honestly can’t think of another context for these designs. I’ve phoned Dr. Sheffield at Imperial; he’s authorized you and JD051 staying in town overnight so Dr. Michael Taylor, a colleague of mine, can take a look at the injuries in the morning to see whether the body fits with the traditional over-kill.”

Winnifred shut off the recorder with a click that echoed in the small room.

“Dr. Sheffield mentioned your work ethic included staying up late to examine the body more closely. Don’t feel like you have to do that here, I know how stressful studying for a doctorate can be. You need your rest, just like everyone else! Now that’s out of the way, if you really do want to stay up, I’m not going to stop you. It’s your decision entirely.”

Brian nodded. He had started to look forward to the late-night conversations with John.

“If it won’t be too much trouble. I’ve found working at night helps me concentrate. There’s fewer distractions, you see.”

Dr. Meaddows nodded, pulling out a ring of keys and taking off a small secondary ring.

“This is the key to the main building, and _this_ will let you into where we are now. Just remember to lock up when you’re done, okay?” she said, looking at Brian and sighing. “I know you aren’t my son, but do try to get _some_ sleep? You look like you’re going to fall over at any moment. If I find you asleep here in the morning, I _will_ insist on making you breakfast before Dr. Taylor comes. Deal?”

Brian accepted the keys with a sheepish grin. “Deal. See you in the morning!” She wasn’t wrong—he did need to sleep more. Was it his fault that John was so interesting? Brian could talk with him for hours, gently tracing the patterns along the hem of John’s shirt with his eyes until his soft voice lulled Brian to sleep. Sometimes, if he was very lucky, Brian would feel ancient fingers slipping through his hair, methodically separating his unruly curls from the rubber band he used to hold them in place during the day. He pretended he didn’t notice, but Brian slept the soundest on those nights and dreamed of comfortable summer evenings spent laying next to someone very familiar in front of a crackling fire.


	8. In Which A New Friend Is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian's social circle expands from two to three. Yaaaaaay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is long. This also marks the end of my pre-prepared chapters, so I probably won't be able to update every day now. I'll try, but you know how it is.  
> Thanks for 60+ comments and 20+ kudos, everyone! This is above and beyond what I had expected and it means a lot that you folks gave this a shot. You're the best!  
> Roger's concept is based on Grauballe Man, with his hair specifically based on Clonycavan Man. He's such a little shit.  
> Side note, this chapter includes one of my prompts for this fic: "bog bodies give terrible love advice".

Brian returned to the archaeology department at dusk. As he stepped inside the building, it hit him like a bolt of lightning—something was different tonight. There was the scent of ozone and faint voices murmuring in the back of the room. 

Brian’s first thought was of other students, quickly followed by thieves, and then—“John!”

He must have spoken more loudly than he thought, the voices stopped. Brian took a few cautious steps into the room, trying to stick close to the walls like he had seen in a James Bond film. He heard uneven footsteps running towards him and Brian froze, eyes wide as he saw _something_ low to the ground and twisted in the middle galloped around the corner of an exhibit. 

Whatever it was, it was strangely flattened, with sturdy-looking legs—not sturdy-looking, flat _in the other way_ , and arms too, that bent and straightened in both directions! Its movements were jerky and stiff, but on all fours it could get up some serious speed and Brian couldn’t help but yell in shock. The thing’s head turned in his direction and Brian could see how it had been flattened in such a way to make both eyes lay on the same side of its face. A shock of light hair was twisted in a knot along the other side of its head (Part of Brian’s brain knew what that was called, it was made with some kind of makeshift gel from northern Spain, it was on the tip of his tongue—wait, he had better things to think about now, _like the very dead thing charging at him!_ )

_ It’s another body! _ Brian thought before John came stumbling around the corner as well. He shouted something in the language he had first spoken and the new body stopped and turned towards him. It—he?—said something back and kicked up onto its legs, steadying his body by grabbing onto the glass surrounding another exhibit. At this angle the man—it was probably a man, anyway—looked less animalistic, even though he couldn’t have been more than four inches thick at the widest.

Brian must have still had a scared expression on his face, because John sighed and looked at him like he was an idiot.

“He’s not going to hurt you, he didn’t think anyone was going to come in.”

“Sorry. Who is he?” Brian asked, looking a bit closer at the newcomer. “How is he awake too?”

John turned to the other body and translated Brian’s question, and then the answer when it came. 

“He’s not sure, but he thinks it’s because I’m here. His name is Roger, he was a servant to a soldier from Saxony when they invaded.” 

At that, Brian relaxed a bit. If Roger was going to hurt him, he wouldn’t have stopped when John asked him to. This raised more questions than it answered. If Roger had been raised from the dead by proxy, did that mean that everything dead would come to life? Would Brian have to worry about the diplodocus skeleton in the museum trying to shake off its plaster cast and go nibble on the grass outside? 

While Brian was having his existential crisis, Roger and John were talking in their own language again. John seemed to be explaining something with a rather fond expression on his face, before gesturing at Brian. Roger responded with a comment that was short and to-the-point (Brian couldn’t quite make it out, something about going back into the bog? But taking something with him? It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, maybe Roger’s dialect and partly crushed lower jaw were making some words sound like others.) that John reacted to by looking sharply over at his new friend. 

_ “No, I’m not doing that! He—” _ (or possibly the word “it”, it was difficult to find an exact translation) _”—would be damaged—”_ (again, the language was imprecise) _“—and I can’t risk that happening.”_

“Everything alright over there?” Brian asked, taking a few steps towards them. John and Roger looked up, with all the bearing of schoolboys caught planning some mischief. 

“We’re fine, Bry—Brian. Just comparing customs.” John said, smiling faintly at him. It wasn’t the first time he had slipped up, but Brian couldn’t get him to say exactly who “Brys” had been. The name seemed familiar, though, maybe he had seen it in his research somewhere…

“Are you here to see the… the woman with the… soft hands?” Roger asked, looking to John to see whether he had chosen his words correctly. 

Brian nodded. “She wanted to look at John’s clothing, to try and see how old he is.”  
Roger smiled. “She’s nice. She’s always so gentle when she dusts me off. Will you be staying long?” 

Brian led them back to the table John had been laid on when they arrived and helped him climb back up. The three of them talked until nearly dawn, Brian making careful notes of the more interesting parts until he felt himself start to drift off into the oblivion of sleep. 


	9. In Which Local Boys Take Care Of Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian meets Dr. Taylor; it's. Interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was easier to write than I thought it'd be. Nice!   
> I realized I had to give Roger a "proper" name, so I came up with Helman Tor Man. There aren't bogs that far south in England, but Helman Tor is a nature reserve in Cornwall that includes a stretch of wetlands--the closest thing, I figured. We're already suspending our disbelief quite a bit with this story, so I figured it didn't have to be 100% accurate.

Brian wakes up the next morning to Dr. Meaddows shaking his shoulder. 

“Come on, sleepyhead! Get up, I live two streets over, you’re going to take a shower and I’m going to make you a full English breakfast that you’re going to eat at least two thirds of.” She said, hoisting Brian to his feet and all but frog-marching him out of the museum. “What is it with graduate students and not getting enough to eat? I’ll have a word with Dr. Sheffield, you’re skin and bones! They really should give you more of a stipend for your studies…” 

All in all, Brian thought (when he had woken up enough to realize what was happening), it was nice for Dr. Meaddows—"Call me Winifred, dear”—to put in so much effort for him. He wasn’t even going to the same University she taught at, and she still managed to jam a cup of excellently made tea into his hand within 30 seconds of being invited into her house. For the first time, Brian wondered what it would take to transfer his coursework between the two schools.

Dr. Michael Taylor was cooly professional and perfunctory in both his examination of John and his interactions with Brian and Winifred. 

“Subject JD051 has received a crushing blow to the back of the head, probably from a blunt object. Furthermore, there appear to be signs of a crushed trachea caused by strangulation.” 

“And the laceration of the throat.” Winifred pointed out, tracing the mark on John’s neck. Dr. Taylor didn’t seem to appreciate the interruption. 

“Yes. And laceration of the throat. As anybody with eyes can see.” He said, speaking into his recorder completely deadpan. 

This time, he was interrupted by a loud bang coming from the direction of the glass display cases. Winifred frowned, walking over with Brian to where the noise had come from. 

“Who is it?” Dr. Taylor asked, from where he had stayed by John. 

Brian knew immediately who it had been, when they got to the spot. He couldn’t say anything, though, the person responsible wasn’t supposed to be able to move.

“There’s nobody here—not unless you count Helman Tor Man. It must have been the wood expanding—you know how much it’s been raining lately.”


	10. In Which We Continue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter ended kinda suddenly, so this is the ""second half"" of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, here we are! I'll try and have an update ready for once a week. Like in the summary, I re-read Chapter 9 and realized the ending seemed somewhat abrupt, so here's what should have come after that.  
> I remembered Brian is a grad student somewhat late in the chapter, can you tell? :D
> 
> Note: Windeby I (known in the 70s as Windeby Girl) is a German bog body found in the 1950s. It was thought until fairly recently that Windeby was an adulteress due to another, older male body being found somewhat close by. Radio Carbon Dating has since determined that the other body was some 300 years older than Windeby I, and that Windeby I would have most likely been a teenage boy. I really recommend checking out the documentary "Mystery Of The Bog Mummies", they go into more detail about the body and the Punishment Theory.  
> The Punishment Theory has been mostly debunked in recent years (or at least more recent than the 70s)--it's generally thought that bog bodies were either human sacrifices or more mundane murder victims nowadays. For a while, a theory floated around that bog bodies had drowned accidentally, but that was pretty quickly debunked when they kept showing up with nooses around their necks and other really violent deaths.  
> Also, the majority of Iron Age graveyards that have been found have mostly been comprised of urns with a clear "burning" area--with the charred earth underneath still clearly visible. For more information on that, I recommend the Time Team episode "Saxon Death, Saxon Gold". The Iron Age was significantly before Anglo Saxon times, but we're already suspending disbelief quite a bit here.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Brian gave a surreptitious glare at Roger, noting that Roger’s expression seemed more irritated than usual. He and Winifred went back to Dr. Taylor, who was looking rather smug now that the tension was over.

“Anyway—with these injuries, it is my professional opinion that this man was a criminal of some kind and this was his punishment.”

Brian frowned. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a feeling that that particular theory was wrong. The (wonderful, funny, fascinating) man he knew didn’t seem like a criminal.

“Are you sure?” he asked quickly, before the older man could turn off the recorder. “The punishment theory isn’t universal—if I may, what makes that theory more attractive in this case than human sacrifice or some kind of accidental death?”

Dr. Taylor looked irritated, but begrudgingly respectful of the fact that Brian knew his stuff. 

“It’s all in their religion, Mr. May, you should know this. This man most likely dates from sometime in the Iron Age. The inhabitants of Britain at the time believed that if they weren’t cremated, their souls would continue to wander after their deaths—”

_ “—You don’t know the half of it—” _ Brian thought.

“Because the bodies were placed in the bog after their deaths and because they are generally found naked—JD051 is well dressed, I’ll give you that—but that, alongside the violent nature of their deaths seem to be more likely to be an execution than a treasured sacrifice to me.”

Brian nodded. It was a valid thought—nobody really knew why they were put into the bogs in the first place, and anybody who might know was long dead. 

Or, at least they _had_ been.

“That might fit for Windeby Girl or Helman Tor Man, but like you said, this one is different. His hands have calluses, but they were in the process of fading. He would have been familiar with hard work, but hadn’t done any himself in some time. His fingernails, too—they’re not manicured, but they’re well cared for. Like I said yesterday, his clothing is finely made as well. Blue dye would have been hard to come by—probably imported from France or Spain—and the intricacy of the embroidery and weaving on his tunic wouldn’t have come cheap. I believe this man must have been a high-status individual in his community—an aristocrat or a priest perhaps, of some older religion.” Dr. Meaddows said, pointing out the features as she spoke about them. 

This was it! This was what Brian had been waiting for! Confirmation of his theory, and without directly asking for it. John was going to be his window into the past—surely, his thesis would come much easier if he could just ask someone from the time about their religion. 

He couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face as he thanked the professors for their time and prepared both himself and John for the trip back to London. 


	11. In Which Our Villain Makes Himself Known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait and write more so I could go back to having more regular updates. And then the last little bit of the puzzle slid into place and I just had to share it with y'all. This is what I get for re-reading mythology books at 10 PM.  
> Glapsvin is a bit of an in-joke with the future. Not to worry, all will become clear (or at least more will become clear) once Freddie gets introduced, probably in the next chapter.

It was dark. Why was it dark? Oh, yes. Paul remembered now. He had been waiting for so long, but his hatred—his passion—had sustained him. The sorcerer who had enchanted him had said that when his rival had woken from his slumber, so would Paul. King Hardred was awake. And this time, Paul was ready for him. 

Prince Prenter had never been fond of his brother. Hardred had always been two steps ahead—he was the smart one, the tall one, the handsome one who always got what—or who—he wanted on a silver platter. And sure, he had a good head for negotiations, but Paul didn’t see how that should make everyone else fall over each other to practically worship him like a god. 

They never saw eye-to-eye on anything, so it was only a matter of time before the tension broke. To his credit, Hardred had tried to talk things out first, but Paul wasn’t satisfied—he wasn’t going to be so easily swayed by his brother’s silver tongue. 

When it came to fighting, Paul and Hardred were fairly evenly matched. Hardred was taller and had a bit more muscle, but Paul made up for it with enthusiasm and cunning. It had seemed like all was lost and Paul was exiled from his brother’s kingdom—and then everything changed.

The wanderer was an old man, covered in a gray cloak with a large hat to match that introduced himself with a mysterious smile. Everything about him screamed “I am vulnerable”, and yet when Paul had struck up a conversation, the man seemed to at least have a passing knowledge of every topic of conversation. Soon the talk came around to what Paul was doing outside of his hometown.

“So tell me, boy. Why are you here and not still warm in your family’s hall?” the old man asked, looking at Paul from beneath his floppy-brimmed hat. 

“I was exiled for not following my brother unquestioningly.” Paul said, taking a bitter drink from his cup. “Everyone thinks he’s so great, but he isn’t, and they don’t see that.”

The old man leaned back, looking at Paul out of his one good eye. One of his eyes was piercing blue, while the other was milky white from a (thankfully healed) gash over that side of his face. Both eyes seemed to stare right through him, and Paul felt a shiver go down his spine.

“What if I told you you could get revenge? Would you take it?” 

“Of course I would.” Paul answered without hesitation. “My brother is family, but he has wronged me, and I have to restore my reputation.”

The old man grinned. “Then let’s talk, and plan to direct your righteous fury in a worthwhile endeavor. While I know a little about most things, I know the most about magic. I will help you get your revenge.”

They talked, into the night and beyond, until the tavern kicked them out to close and they talked some more outside. Paul could feel himself turning on with the knowledge the old man (who now called himself Glapsvin—and why did that seem familiar?) was saying. He spoke of the gods and the afterlife as if he personally knew what was to come—and maybe he did, he was looking older and older as the night wore on—and a part of Paul was screaming to run away and plug his ears and not listen anymore, but he shoved that down with all the ruthlessness he could manage. One thing was for certain, he was going to finally get one over on his oh-so perfect brother. 

When Paul woke up after so many centuries of slumber, the first thing he noticed was that a house had been built fairly close to the bog. It was large and practically glowed white in the moonlight and a tired-looking man with a patchy red beard opened the door when he knocked. The man started to scream, but two words from Paul silenced him. Glapsvin had been right—magic was a powerful tool. All that was left was to find his brother and kill him before he regained his full strength.


	12. In Which A Task Is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian gets back to London and has a surprise waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter in half, so no Freddie today, but he should be coming in the next one (for real this time)! Have Jim instead!  
> As a preemptive recap, Brian is a graduate worker at the National Museum of History. Jim usually works at the British Museum as the head of their Bronze Age department (note: I'm not sure whether that museum has a Bronze Age department or not, but close enough), though he also teaches at the University of Bristol.  
> Jim is based on Professor Ronald Hutton, the actual Professor of British Folklore at the U of B. The real Professor Hutton is a genuine delight to watch, he's popped up in a couple of the documentaries I've been looking at. What better way to give a shoutout than with our dear Jim?  
> On another note, thank you to everybody for helping me break 100 comments with this chapter! This fic was the one I expected to get the least engagement with and it's been above and beyond the most I've ever had. THANK YOU!!

When Brian and John arrived back at the National Museum of History, Professor Sheffield was waiting for him. 

“Mr. May! How was Cornwall? Listen,” he said, not pausing to allow Brian to reply. “Something’s come up. Quite literally, in fact. Dr. Glapsvin wants to meet with you himself.”

Oh god. Scenes flashed in Brian’s head of Dr. Glapsvin—the museum director, the man directly in charge of which graduate students got the jobs in the various departments—looking through the security footage and seeing him gently touching John or watching him flail for the gladius that first night, or—or—

Brian had worked himself into quite a state by the time he got to the door that read “Dr. Otis Glapsvin, Museum Director” in thin gold lettering. Brian knocked on the lightly polished surface and was surprised when a familiar face opened it. 

“Ah, Mr. May, come in!” Dr. Glapsvin said, gesturing for Brian to come and sit down. “Just the man we’ve been waiting for! Brian May, this is Jim Hutton, head of the Bronze Age department at the British Museum and visiting Professor of British Folklore down in Bristol.”

Brian knew exactly who Professor Hutton was, one of the Professor’s lectures had inspired Brian to study the folklore and early religion of the British Isles in the first place. He just hoped he didn’t look too starstruck as he shook the Professor’s hand. 

“I’m—it’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor. I don’t know how many times I’ve been to the British Museum, the ticket girls probably know me on sight by now.” He said, inwardly cringing at the stutter. To Brian’s surprise, Professor Hutton also seemed to be at a loss for words.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. May. I read your article in the Oxford Journal of Archaeology on Druidic practices in the early Iron Age. Your findings were so compelling, we—the exhibit designer and myself, I mean—we changed a few of our exhibits to reflect it.” 

Brian must have been obviously thunderstruck since Dr. Glapsvin cleared his throat gently to get their attention and said “Gentlemen,” though he also had a fond smile on his face. 

Dr. Glapsvin had always encouraged Brian, he had been the one to insist he at least try to submit his paper to Oxford when he was just barely out of his undergraduate studies. Now, he looked proud, and Brian practically glowed under his approval.

“The director of the British Museum and myself have been talking, and we want the two of you to design an exhibit focusing on the bog bodies of Great Britain. JD_051 and FM_046 are two of the best-preserved bog mummies in the world, it would be a shame to not show them side-by-side with Helman Tor Man, as a more typical example. Dr. Meaddows will work with the two of you to design that part of the exhibit, she’s the expert on the Cornish bogs, but for now, I suggest the two of you get to know each other and your respective artifacts. You’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together over the next few months.”


	13. In Which Brian Expands His Social Circle (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian and Jim bond; Freddie makes his grand debut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! There'll be more of Freddie in the next chapter, but it felt right to cut it off where I did. This is the setup, all will be revealed in the next one......

Brian lead Professor Hutton back to the artifact storage area, chatting about different layout ideas and what they could put on their informational cards to really engage the public. The press had done a fair bit of legwork for the museums with their coverage of John’s discovery, so there was already interest. Brian and Jim just had to hit the sweet spot of informative and entertaining in order to properly hold their attention when the average person walked through.

Finally, they reached the back where John was resting. Today he was joined by another body on a similar metal lab table.

FM046 had been the last bog body found in England, back in 1942 when a German bomber had gone off course and let its payload of bombs fall into a small copse of trees in the countryside. At first, the local authorities had thought that the 2500-year-old corpse had been a local man who had ignored the air raid sirens and gone out for a walk, but closer inspection had revealed that the nearly-naked man hadn’t been killed by the bombs. The body couldn’t be examined properly by scientists, since the majority of them had been drafted. Instead, it was put into storage at the British Museum to wait for the end of the war.

The Professor—just regular old Jim, then—had re-discovered FM046 in his undergraduate studies in 1958 and had dedicated himself to figuring out who he was and how he had died. FM046 (or “Fred”, as he was affectionately nicknamed) had been someone of status in his community, given the jewelry he was found with. The fine chain rather artfully draped over his beautifully preserved (even after almost 20 years in storage) hair wouldn’t have been easy or quick to make, even if it was made of copper and not a more precious material. The body had also been found laying on top of a hazel staff and a bronze spear, with a woven noose around his neck and a belt slung low on his hips. The only piece of clothing he had been found with was a tightly-woven wool cloak that would have nearly reached the ground if he were standing. Any signs of his death had been smoothed over, his eyes gently closed, so he looked as if he were sleeping as Brian and Jim entered the room.

Seeing “Fred” up close took Brian's breath away.

“He’s rather beautiful, isn’t he?” Jim said, looking almost fondly at the body. “It was his exhibit we changed, you know. Your report on Druidic practices helped us realize he was most likely a High Priest of the Old Religion.”

Brian nodded on autopilot, even though he was still fairly stunned.

“The hazel staff and the spear, he would have—”

A thought his Brian like a speeding train—would “Fred” wake up too? What would he be like? Would he and John get along? Oh yeah, Jim was there too, looking a bit confused—OH, Brian had been talking out loud!

“He'd have used them both to conduct magic. Probably. They would have thought. You know, because magic isn’t real.” _Nice save, Brian_.

“…Right.” Jim said slowly, nodding.

* * *

That night, after Brian had bid Jim goodnight and gone back to study, he heard low voices coming from the archaeology lab. He wasn’t afraid this time, Brian knew what to expect. He knocked to let the formerly dead men inside know he was coming and opened the door.

John was looking at the other body, shocked as Fred lounged on the metal table. Despite having been in that particular museum for less than a day, he was acting like he owned the place.

“John?” Brian asked, and John's eyes immediately went to Brian. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, I was wondering when you'd show up, dear. Come in, Brys. There's much to be discussed.”


	14. In Which (Other) Discoveries Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brys meets up with Freddie and receives some disturbing news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy guys! I'm not dead! In my defense, I found this fantastic archaeological journal I'll link at the bottom that talks about a possible Druidic burial (or the grave was for a doctor. Maybe both? Nobody really knows) and I just think that's just about the coolest thing since sliced bread.  
> Anyhoo, Freddie's design is based partly on the Druidic burial and partly on the owner of the world's oldest prosthetic eye--a six foot tall Persian priestess. I'll link an article about her at the bottom as well. Enjoy!

Brys was worried. It had been two days since John had opened his door to him. Was it something he had said? He had thought that John had enjoyed his company as they brought feed to his livestock and stayed up telling each other stories by the fire.

After a month, the Druids had finished the spells on John's bog and all but the highest were dismissed to return to their communities. Knowing he wouldn’t be missed for another few days, Brys headed north instead of returning to the west.

Frederick (“Call me Freddie, darling!”) had been a Druid for far longer than Brys had. He’d know what to do. Freddie was an imposing figure at first glance, though once you saw past his elaborate clothing and his ever-present entourage of cats and his sturdy wooden staff, he was a big softie. He never shied away from telling the truth (no matter how hard it might be to hear), but he wasn’t unsympathetic either. It was Freddie’s strategizing, along with his gifts of prophecy, that made him so attractive to the local leaders. He was very good at predicting what was going to happen and forming a plan of action before his enemies had the chance to attack. It was whispered that he was favored by Wodaz, the Trickster God of War and Magic who had hung himself and cut out one of his own eyes to gain Knowledge of The Future. That must be how he had managed to rocket up through the ranks of the Old Religion in record time, how he managed to always predict the future correctly, how he could go toe-to-toe with the most skilled poets and sing the praises of his Lord like a songbird.

When Brys arrived in Mersey, Freddie came out to greet him and Brys realized he had another similarity to the Hanged God—one of his eyes had been replaced with a golden orb. It didn’t seem to bother him any, Freddie ran up to Brys with a bright smile on his face and hugged him tight.

“Brys! It’s so good to see you! Come inside, it’ll be nightfall soon and I’ve put more wood on the fire so we can talk into the night. I had Phoebe make that stew you like, the one with no meat, you must be hungry!” he said, gently shoving his friend inside.

Freddie liked to keep an eye on Brys when he visited, ever he had a particularly disturbing vision when they were in training together. Brys put up a token protest, but quickly agreed to be led inside Freddie’s roundhouse. It was a large building with one central room and six smaller rooms divided by shallow walls. In the middle of the floor was a large fire that crackled merrily as they walked in. “Phoebe”, a friend of Freddie’s from southern Mercia who was an excellent cook, had two bowls ready when they entered the building.

“Tell me everything, darling. How was Oadby? The dedication went smoothly, didn’t it?” Freddie asked, sitting down cross-legged. Brys told him everything. The dying chieftain, the call to preserve his body so he could return when the time was right, the chance encounter with the farmer that had blossomed into a (surely one-sided) crush, and the abrupt ending.

“And then he just stopped answering the door, even when it was time to feed his animals. He was always such an early riser. I think I offended him somehow.” Brys finished, looking dejectedly into his now empty bowl. Freddie nodded thoughtfully and put his own aside.

“I’ll cast lots. Once, to see how your friend is doing; and once to see what you should do.” Freddie stood, going over to a large wooden chest and rummaging around in the low light.

“Do you need help looking?” Brys asked, also standing. “Your eye—you still haven’t told me why you did that, but it can’t make things easy.”

Freddie waved him off, pulling out a parcel wrapped in an animal skin that clanked when it was picked up. “Nonsense, dear. I see twice as well as you, now, just different things. But that's a story for another time.” He came back over and knelt down to unwrap his bundle. Eight rods were inside, half of them copper and half of them in some strange black metal Brys had never seen before (his own set was wooden). In each metal, two were long and two were shorter, with one of each length and each metal flattened on one end for more variety.

“Stand back, only the gods know where they'll end up.” Freddie said, taking a good look at the ground and where he wanted to represent what, before closing his one good eye (the gold one stayed open, glinting darkly in the firelight) and tossing the rods into the air.

Time seemed to go in slow motion as the rods fell. Brys held his breath, thinking about the last time he had seen John and how troubled he had been. Part of him wondered if he had missed something, some clue to what had been bothering John. He was so young and had acted like it when Brys first met him. He was always quick with a smile (wide and happy, showing a small gap in his front teeth and Brys had felt his heart melt the first time he had seen it) or a comforting word himself—had Brys not been quick enough to reciprocate? A traitorous part of him whispered that it was _Brys_ who had been bothering him, and John had taken the first opportunity to get away.

He'd know for sure, one way or the other. There was a feeling of destiny and the scent of ozone in the air as the metal hit the ground. Most of them lay in some configuration, but the two long black ones stuck straight up, stabbing down into the packed earth.

Freddie's hands flew up to cover his mouth and Brys fell to his knees. They both knew what that meant.

John was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Druidic burial: http://cat.essex.ac.uk/reports/MAG-report-0010.pdf  
> 5,000 year old prosthetic eye: https://nweyedesign.com/5000-year-old-artificial-eye/


	15. In Which Plans Are Formed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brys has a dream. Freddie has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: OK Brain, time to write the Brys/Brian explanation.  
> Brain: OK, the Brys Dream Sequence  
> Me: Wait, hang on--  
> Brain: And it's the Prophet's Song, gotcha.  
> Me: No wait--  
> Brain: And a bit angsty? You make the orders!
> 
> Sorry folks. I went just a tad bit off course with this one. There /will/ be an explanation of how Brys and Brian are connected, I just need to get the bitchy little worm in my brain in line. For now, enjoy!

So. John was dead.

Freddie wouldn’t tell him how, only that he was gone. He had been killed (instead of dying of disease) in Oadby, but he wasn't in a place Brys wouldn't be able to follow. It took some time for Brys to come to terms with it all. The lots that had fallen were in their “past” configurations, save for one. John had a future, after all. It wasn’t a near future, by any stretch of the imagination, but there it was just the same. John had loved him, or at least had started to when his time was cut short. The others were all potential—too faint to give a clear reading. It made sense, in a way. John couldn’t have a present.

But John had a future, even though he was dead. There was still hope.

Brys had to be there when he returned. He had to make up for the fact that he hadn’t helped before. Every shared smile was on repeat in his brain, every night spent by firelight telling tales. Whenever Brys thought about John, he felt that surge of Knowing, of Destiny, and the scent of ozone grew stronger in the air.

Freddie had cleared up the rods and the dishes (shooing Brys away every time he tried to help) and laid out a bedroll for his friend.

“Get some sleep, Brimi. It's no good if you stay up half the night worrying about what might have been. When the morning comes, you'll be exhausted and you still won’t have thought of an answer to your problems.” Freddie said, setting one out for himself as well. Sleeping always helped him strategize anyway.

* * *

Brys had a terrible dream that night. He was standing in a field after dark, unable to see much further than about five feet in any direction, despite the sky being a dull brown color instead of its usual dark black. He heard the wind whistling around him, blowing his cloak backwards and forwards seemingly at random. Brys looked up to see the sky and saw almost no stars above. When he looked back down, there was an old man with a long grey cloak and wide-brimmed hat covering most of his face.

“Listen to this warning,” he said in a voice that echoed around Brys’ head. “Oh, children of the land! Love is still the answer, take my hand!”

Beside him, Freddie wasn’t doing much better. He also dreamed of the old man, who told of a son estranged from his family, obsessed by his own gain. This man—whoever it was—had use of powerful magic and would bring destruction (“The earth will shake, in two will break, and death all around will be his dowry!”) if left unchecked. The bone-white specter of death hung over this man, but also over Brys, and Freddie himself. He wasn’t afraid of death, it came for everyone, but Freddie admitted to himself that this wasn’t how he had expected to go into the afterlife.

The old man shook his head and Freddie Knew: This wouldn’t be a True Death.

“Quicken to the new life, take my hand! For those who hear and mark my words, listen to the good plan!”

Freddie woke up, drenched in sweat and panting like he had just run a race.. Beside him, Brys awoke with a scream, his face pale. He rolled over on one side and dry heaved a few times, before starting to sob. Freddie wasn’t quite as affected by the dreams anymore; they had become a disturbing, if fairly common occurrence over the last year.

He got up to fetch a cup of water for Brys, helping his friend sit up and bringing him into a comforting hug after the crying had turned into a kind of fragile shuddering.

“There, there… Let it all out, it’s a lot to take in.” Freddie said, rubbing circles on Brys’ back.

“It was so real! I was—you were—" he said, the dream still vivid in his memory.

“That’s because it will be real. It’s okay, though. I know what we have to do.”


	16. In Which We Get Back On Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We check back in with Paul, and John meets Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!! 657 hits, 46 kudos, and 140 comments! I'm honestly blown away!  
> I'm going to be starting on a podfic for this and a video series on the different historical references in the chapters. There's been a bit of interest in the comments, so I'll be starting on that when I get a bit of time. I've had to cover literally all the shifts at work, so it's been fairly slow going for everything.   
> That said, I was on a bit of a roll when I wrote the last chapter, so enjoy!

All in all, the house was fitting for a True and Rightful ruler such as himself. Paul was making himself quite at home in the mansion by the bog. The man Foster, who had been living there before Paul had taken possession, had attempted to put up a fight until he had called upon the Old Magic and silenced the old fool with a word. Now Foster stood dumbly in the corner, mouth slightly open and eyes blank, until Paul needed him.

Paul himself sat on the floor of the root cellar of a basement, the closest he could get to the earth without actually leaving the house. He knew he had to act quickly. Foster was an idiot, but he would be missed in town if he didn’t make an appearance in a few weeks. Unfortunately, Paul’s mind control wasn’t so much whispering instructions into his ear as it was wholesale kicking the front door down and forcing Foster at spear-point to do what he wanted—the people in town would know the difference. It had been a week and a half already—so, the basement.

Paul allowed himself to stretch physically before he laid down with his palms and bare feet pressing against the cool earth and he reached out with his mind.

He was connected with his brother by the bog, they could each feel where the other was. Paul was counting on his brother not realizing what he had done to give him the upper hand here.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of calling out with his spirit like how Glapsvin had taught him, Paul felt the faintest tug of curiosity on the other side of the bond. His brother felt different, but Paul chalked it up to them both having been dead for however many years. It didn’t matter—Paul had waited for this moment for several thousand years. He’d be a fool to not take this chance.

* * *

At the museum, before Brian had returned after hours, John woke up to a strange twinge-y feeling in the back of his brain. It tickled, buzzing like a bumblebee that had accidentally flown into his ear as a child, only at the base of his skull. Without thinking, he raised a hand to rub at it and the strange buzzing went away. Huh.

He didn’t have much time to think about that, since an unfamiliar voice greeted him from one table over.

“So you must be John, then.”

John froze, trying to look over without actually turning his head. Shit! Brian had told him to keep still when he wasn’t alone, they couldn’t afford the attention if the general public knew the dead were coming back to life before Brian could think up a plausible explanation.

Light laughter came in response, and John couldn’t help but feel a bit silly. He unfroze and looked over, only to discover that the person who was laughing was another body!

“It’s alright, darling, you don’t have to hide from me. I’m just glad the spells worked. I’m Freddie, of Mersey. Brys should be along shortly to explain everything, he should be here too, somewhere.”

John shook his head, sitting up to look at the other man. “He’s not Brys. He looks just like him, but he’s not him. It’s like he doesn’t remember.” He couldn’t keep the look of grief out of his expression. It made sense—so much time had passed—but it still hurt that one of his best friends, and the man he had not-insignificant feelings for didn’t even recognize him. This went against everything John believed about love, but the evidence was right in front of him, every day. Brys—no, Brian—was just as kind and just as knowledgeable, but he seemed more interested in his thesis than John. It hurt to be so close, and still so far apart.

John didn’t even question how the Druid knew who he was. John liked to think of himself as a devout man, but the dealings of Druids was way above his pay grade.

Freddie frowned, propping his head up with an arm.

“He doesn’t remember?” he said, looking worried. That wasn’t part of the plan.


	17. In Which We Finally Get Answers (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian is confused, until he isn't. Paul takes a trip. Jim's back!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the brain worm wrangled, here's Part 1 (of probably 2) of the Answers chapters. It didn't really work to smush it together, so they're gonna be separate chapters, but I'll upload the second either later today or tomorrow.   
> Also, it's time to pop the Moet because this is officially breaking 10K words! This story is now Officially the longest thing I've ever written! In celebration of that (and 700 hits), I've recorded and uploaded the first in my historical explanation series for the fic on YouTube! I'll link that at the bottom so the top doesn't get any more crowded than it already is, but if you ever wanted to see me ramble about bog bodies for a half hour, I've got you covered.   
> Anyway, enjoy!

“Come in, Brys. There’s much to be discussed.”

Brian entered the archaeology lab and closed the door behind him.

“Sorry, I—who is Brys?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “I've been hearing that name a lot recently and I feel like I should know him, but I can't quite remember. It'll be on the top of my tongue—but nothing. Was he a king?”

“He was a Druid, darling, and my best friend.” Freddie looked heartbroken, like someone had kicked one of his precious cats.

* * *

At that moment, a loud, heavy knock was sounding against the front doors of the museum. Jim was just heading out for the night when he heard it, he leaned out to say that the museum was closed, and then everything went white and fuzzy around the edges.

There was a sort-of man standing in a shadow by the door. If Jim was more in control of himself, he probably would have reacted in shock—the man (if it was a man) was obviously dead. He looked like he had been flattened by something. His skull was at least partly crushed and one of his arms (when he came closer and Jim opened the door for him without question) was partly skeletonized, with only a few threads of muscle and skin between the bones. That didn’t seem to inhibit the range of motion, it would be fascinating if it wasn’t so terrifying. Jim felt as if he was locked away in his own head—he could have thoughts, could form them in his mind, but he couldn’t act on them.

The walking corpse said something in a strange language Jim couldn’t understand, but he followed the order anyway. They were heading back, to the back of the museum, and Jim only hoped that Brian would hold off longer than he had.

* * *

During the whole exchange between Brian and Freddie, John was acting more and more agitated. After about 30 seconds of that, Brian turned to him.

“Are you alright, John?” he asked, frowning.

“I think there's someone coming, I can feel him. I think I led him here on accident.” John replied, looking absolutely terrified. “I don’t know what he wants, but—oh, Brian--it's something bad. I’m sure of it. He wants to hurt someone, kill them, and there's nothing they can do to stop it.”

Brian moved closer to John, taking his hand—in solidarity, surely—as Freddie got down off of his table and looked for his staff and spear.

The door to the archaeology lab opened and Brian, John, and Freddie's heads snapped over to see who would come through.

It was Jim, looking a equal parts dazed and confused. He seemed to be shuffling, eyes wide and blank, with the rest of his expression betraying his distress.

“Jim? What's happened to you?” Freddie asked, breaking the silence, but Jim didn’t answer.

That came by way of the moderately well-preserved body that entered the room next. He was thrumming with energy, the same way someone on meth had energy, except Brian could feel it crackling in the air. The man spoke, in the same proto-Germanic language that John had first spoken in, only this time a long-forgotten part of Brian's brain translated it for him.

“ _Where's my brother?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link to the playlist of explanation videos, I'll try to get more chapters up when I have the time: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLhIeB_hISCQ0wkJMuikZAllBdMcWCSVdK


	18. In Which We Finally Get Answers (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, folks! This chapter contains another seed ideas for this fic, the concept of two men in a Highlander-esque situation, except what if it went wrong somewhere down the line? I thought it would be hilarious, so I put it down and this fic grew up around it. Not a whole lot to talk about up here, so enjoy!

Brian was terrified. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this scared. This body was everything he had feared John would be. The man—if you could truly call this _thing_ a man, it was mutilated by the bog like Helman Tor Man, but there was something different, something _evil_ about it that set it apart—stood in front of them.

It was John who broke the silence, responding in the same language. He almost looked as if he _recognized_ the corpse.

“Prince Prenter? What are you doing here?”

The thing that had been a Prince turned to look at John, eyes locking onto him with laser focus.

“What have you done with my brother?” he asked, stabbing _out_ with his mind to try and get a reaction from the one he had connected with from outside.

When John reacted, holding his head in his hands, Paul realized what must have happened. His brother had always been two steps ahead in life, why should he be any different in death? He must have called for a decoy burial in case anybody had tried to loot the bog or mutilate his body after death.

Paul felt the rage inside him building, he would not have his revenge foiled by some upstart, hand-picked by his brother to mock him!

From the back of the room, Freddie felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He had a theory, but only one chance to get it right.

“Brys! For-t-gella!” he yelled, throwing his staff at Brian. He caught it (all thoughts of proper protocol and gloves for the artifact having been forgotten for the moment), bringing the base of the staff down hard on the ground with a deafening crack. The ancient wood held up to the impact, and Brian brought it up again, pointing the business end at the corpse on instinct. He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin, and there was something Familiar in his expression that caused Freddie to cheer.

“Leave us.” Brys said calmly in the Old Language. The presence of two Druids gave the corpse pause, but not enough to make him back off.

“Not without _him_.” Paul rasped, pointing at John with one of his arms. John brought a hand up to his head, letting out a yell of pain.

Brys yelled out as well, but this time it was Paul who cried out. A shot of lightning had flown out of the end of the staff and struck Paul in his extended arm, causing what flesh was left on the bones to liquify and slake onto the floor.

The effect was immediate. Paul howled in pain and turned and ran. Jim held his head, shaking it like he was clearing some kind of mental fog. Brys turned to look at John and his face broke out into a relieved smile. “It worked!” he said, though he wasn’t talking about the lightning blast. He looked at John with the same soppy expression as a puppy seeing his owner after a long trip.

His relief was short-lived, however, as the effect of what Brys had done took its toll for the first time in several thousand years. He leaned heavily on the staff, almost falling over as the exhaustion set in.

Freddie and Jim rushed forward to hold him up. Jim, quick-thinking as always, said “We can’t stay here, that _thing_ might come back. Brian, do you have a car? Can we go back to your apartment?”

Brian looked towards Jim, following the voice. His expression was vague, he almost looked drunk as he blinked up at him and struggled to focus his eyes. Brian patted at his pockets, drawing out his keys and holding them out to Jim with a nod.

“Yeah, I’m out in… in Queensgate, the basement flat by the car park, I’ll say which one.”

In his office, Glapsvin watched the little group of misfits make their way to the door. He could have security stop them, archaeology wasn’t generally supposed to leave the museum, but where would the fun be in that? No, he'd watch this play out instead. After all, if you were as old as him, you'd be pretty desperate for entertainment too. He decided to send Winifred a message that “Brian” was ill, their reactions to her unexpected visit would be hilarious.


	19. In Which We Get A Crash Course In British History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What exactly has Brys been doing in all this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's official, folks. I actually dreamed the ritual scene last night and I banged this out in four hours--unheard of for me!   
> This is an extended flashback, so if anybody has questions about the various historical references or periods, feel free to ask. That said, enjoy!

The car ride seemed to last forever. Brian (Brys?) shivered in the passenger seat as Jim drove. His eyes stared out the window, but they did not see the passing Kensington streets.

* * *

Brys followed Freddie to the bog of Mersey.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” he asked, shouldering Freddie’s bag of supplies. The bog had always been a place of betweens. Not on solid, dry land, but not the sea; not in town, but not in the next; not truly of this world, but not completely in the afterlife either. That made it perfect for performing rituals, the liminality of the space gave it Power.

“Yes.” Freddie said, uncharacteristically serious. There was something he had Seen that night that he wouldn’t speak of, but which had clearly shaken him up and filled him with a kind of resolve.

“You need to be there for John when he returns, it’s absolutely vital that you be there. I can ensure that you are, but you have to trust me now.”

Brys nodded.

“I trust you.”

The skies grew dark around the pair, slightly soggy from the exact center of the bog. The wind picked up, drowning out Freddie’s chanting, and Brys could smell the ozone in the air before a lightning strike. Small bolts of electricity stretched from Freddie’s golden eye to the skin around it, leaving scars that flashed white in the low light. He stood knee-deep in the water with his legs spread, staff in one hand and spear in the other. They had fashioned a makeshift noose around his neck—that alone made Brys nervous, but Freddie reacted to his concerns with his usual casual confidence and unflinching acceptance of what was to come, so what choice did Brys have but to follow his lead?

Fortune favors the bold when it came to the gods, and Freddie had never been anything but bold. He had taken to their training like a duck to water, while Brys had remained too nervous for longer. Now, he shoved down those feelings with professional efficiency. Freddie knew what he was doing, even if Brys still wasn’t entirely sure.

A bolt of lightning streaked down from the sky, striking Freddie in his golden eyeball. He convulsed, letting out a howl (of triumph? Of pain? It was hard to tell), slicing his own throat open with his spear. As the dark red blood flowed into the bog, the electricity from his body did as well; the water conducted the energy to the nearest living thing—Brys—who also fell to his knees.

The lightning continued to strike nearby, it hurt—everything hurt, it was too much, he tried to focus on John like Freddie had told him to, but the pain was fogging his mind, he could feel everything, where his fingernails grew from his skin, the roots of his teeth in his skull, each hair as it curled and tangled with the next strand on his scalp—and he passed out as the sensations overwhelmed him.

Through some grace of the gods, Brys woke up on his back with an old man gently shaking him.

“Wake up, boy! Wake up or you’ll drown!” he said, trying to hold Brys’ head above the water. Brys cried, letting great, heaving sobs wrack his body—he was still too sensitive, and even the raindrops coming from the sky hurt. He sat up and the old man crouched down, lending Brys a shoulder to cry on until he had no more tears to shed. The presence of the old man wasn’t questioned, all sorts of impossible things happened in bogs.

“Come on, boy. We have to tend to your friend.” The old man said gently, helping Brys to his feet. Together, they laid Freddie out and prayed over him to help him rest peacefully. His sacrifice would not be in vain. Brys returned to Powys heartbroken and in mourning. It would be many years before the true scope of Freddie’s sacrifice would become apparent.

Brys didn’t age. While the rest of his peers grew older, he was frozen in time. He lost count of how many couples he married, how many births he presided over, and how many funeral pyres he lit. He spoke with Phoebe when he could, both men were desperately lonely.

“Would you ever forget him, if you could?” Phoebe asked philosophically once, when he was very old and Brys stubbornly young.

“Who, Freddie? Or John?” Brys replied, drinking his mead.

“I’d think it would be better to have never loved, than to have loved and lost.” Phoebe continued, not having heard the other man’s question. His hearing had started to deteriorate over the past few years, another reminder that Brys wasn’t truly a man anymore.

He had a point, though.

Eventually, everybody he knew was dead. Powys held nothing for him, apart from sadness and regrets. One night, on the anniversary of Freddie’s death, Brys went out into the bog again. He prayed for forgetfulness. If he truly couldn’t die, the people around him would notice. Steps had to be taken to ensure that he would be left relatively well alone, always just under the radar. This time, it was Brys who let out the bolt of energy into the sky, leaving him with a bone-deep exhaustion.

He packed his things that night and set his house alight, leaving when all that was left was a smoking ruin. It just felt like the right thing to do. Brys moved south, far from anywhere familiar. He settled in a village by the River Thames for a few years before it was under attack by Roman invaders. In response, he kept moving north until he sought solace in Queen Boudica’s lands, but eventually she was conquered as well, and the only thing for it was to make the best of the situation. He continued to practice the Old Ways in secret until he outlived the Romans. In the blink of an eye, the invading Christians were taken over by invading Vikings (Brys was captured by them for a while and found comfort knowing that the older gods that felt so familiar had lived on in theirs), who were in turn re-conquered by the Christians again.

He was a blacksmith, he was a priest, he wrote his own histories along with other monks writing the Chronicles. He helped Geoffrey of Monmouth copy down the stories of King Arthur and Merlin (and why did the thought of poor Merlin, forever living in the oak tree twist at his heart?) He was Brys, Bruce, and Benjamin; Christopher and Charles; James and Joseph—but _never_ John; Felix, but never Frederick; Oren and Owen and Alexander—a thousand names for a thousand lifetimes.

He read every book, learned every trade, mastered every instrument. After all, he had all the time in the world. He divorced Henry and Catherine of Aragon and loaned books to John Dee; he was very nearly burned at the stake by Matthew Hopkins and sailed for Plymouth in America, but was back when war broke out; he was a chef for George IV and a soldier for Victoria; he sailed the Caribbean and around the Cape of Good Hope. When the world erupted into war, he was drafted and promptly became counted among the only survivors of Ypres and The Somme. He never stayed in one place for long, twenty years or so at the most, before he would forget again and move on. He became the most meticulous air raid warden in South London during the Blitz, he could never shake the feeling that there was someone he was forgetting.

* * *

“—ian? Brian, can you hear me? We’re just about to Queensgate, you’ll have to tell me which building is yours.” Jim’s voice knocked Brian out of the flood of memories. He looked out the window—really looked this time—and saw a familiar brick building a little bit further down the street.

“That’s it over there. “ he said, raising a sack of lead masquerading as his arm to point it out. “I’m fine, I’m going to be fine, but I’m just going to go to sleep when we get inside. Jim—” it felt wrong calling him Professor Hutton now, “could you feed my cat? Her name’s Squeaky, she gets one of the little tins in the cupboard.”

Freddie gasped with excitement. “You have a cat?” he asked, delighted, and Brian smiled. As tired as he felt, as crazy as the past hour had been, things felt Right now—nearly perfect. There was only a few loose ends to tie up now, and then he could truly rest.


	20. In Which Questions Are Asked And Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian has a nap. Squeaky has dinner. John, Freddie, and Jim have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the late update, things have slightly fallen into pieces (though I'll probably be ok). There will be another video for Chapter 2 coming probably tomorrow (it's late enough as it is) and I go into a bit more detail about what's happened there, but the long story short is that I don't have a job anymore, so I kind of may have slept most of the past week and a half. Whoops? I'll put the link in the bottom notes when that goes up.  
> Anyway, the story!  
> I'm picturing Brian's apartment as a large studio apartment, with almost everything in the same room. Squeaky the Cat, as always, is a precious bean and should be protected at all costs.

Brian was exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this tired in the last hundred years. Once everybody was inside his apartment, he headed straight for the bed, not bothering to undress before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Meanwhile, Jim found the cupboard with the cat food (not that there were many to choose from) and opened it easily with the opener. As soon as the sharp little wheel pierced the lid of the tin, a small dark streak came flying into the kitchen.

Freddie cooed over the calico cat as Squeaky lived up to her name, rubbing her little face all over Freddie and trying to climb Jim’s legs. Finally, after the excruciatingly long ten seconds it took Jim to put the plate on the floor for Squeaky, Jim, Freddie, and John sat around Brian’s kitchen table.

“What just happened?” Jim asked, looking mainly at Freddie for answers. Surprisingly, it was John who spoke up first.

“He is—was, I suppose—Paul, the younger brother of Hardred of Norfield.”

“Norfield and Oadby fought at the start of Hardred’s rule, but he was able to conquer them and work out a fair arrangement for the people of Oadby so they wouldn’t try to revolt again.” Freddie filled in and Jim nodded in understanding.

“Right. But, the Prince wasn’t well-liked. He thought the people of Oadby were fools, and that his brother was a bigger fool than them for not taking advantage of that. About a year before I—well—you know, he tried to lead an uprising and he was exiled from all of Pengwern, King Hardred was so well liked that none of the other local leaders wanted anything to do with him. I don’t know what happened to him after that, he must have gone _somewhere_.” John admitted. That still didn’t explain how he had returned from the grave, or why he had thought that John was the King.

“He must have found someone to tie him magically to the land you were buried in.” Freddie said, deep in thought. “Word was sent to all the Druids in the area to prepare for Hardred’s death so he would be able to rise when he was needed most.”

“Like the King Arthur legend?” Jim asked, glancing over at Brian’s sleeping form on the bed. Just how much had he had a hand in?

Freddie and John shrugged. “I’d believe it if you say it is, dear. It seems like Paul wouldn’t have liked that, though. He must have convinced someone to put a similar enchantment on him, so he’d awaken when his brother did. The only question is, where is Hardred, and how did you get in the bog?” he asked John.

That gave John some pause. It hadn’t really sunk in that he had been strangled, stabbed, and dumped in the heavy, sucking waters until now.

“I… I was murdered.” He admitted. It seemed so final now. “I had been having these weird dreams, so I went to get some cider, and—ugh, this _idiot_ was there, he was jealous the bog was on my property instead of his. Everything’s a bit fuzzy from then on, but he—he _killed_ me.”

Freddie nodded. “You were a mistake, then—no offense, John. But it wasn’t meant for you. Did they find another body?” he said, turning to Jim, who shook his head.

“There haven’t been any further bodies to show up in that particular section of bog, though I wouldn’t completely rule it out.” He frowned. “I would have thought that if he was going to show up, he would have when everyone started waking up, though.”

Freddie grimaced. “Wonderful.” He said sarcastically. There would be no help from legendary heroes coming to their rescue.

“What does this Prince want? Is there something you can do to stop him? Either of you? Or him?” Jim asked, looking over at Brian.

John looked between Brian and Freddie. Could they stop Paul?

“He wants revenge, that much is clear. This isn’t going to be easy, we’ll need to use everything we’ve got. Every spell, every tool, every connection you might have. We’ll have to strategize, but don’t look so glum, my dears! Strategizing is what I’m good at!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the analysis for Chapter 2! I go into more detail about my employment situation here, if you're interested. https://youtu.be/ycOAC2Uoh7Q


	21. In Which Paul Really Should Check Himself Before He Wrecks Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is a little peeved that things didn't go his way. Glapsvin really doesn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Hoo boy, I hate writer's block. It took three tries to get this out--though, on the bright side, I have the start of two other chapters finished! And I have an interview for a new job on Monday! I'm very excited! I'll keep y'all posted, if you care.   
> Anyhoo, we're in the home stretch for this fic. There's maybe five or six chapters left to this, and I'll get more specific as we get closer to the end, but it's past midnight for me and I'm tired, so for now, I just want to say thanks for coming along on this ride with me! It's going to finish up a doozy and I can't wait to see your reactions to it!

Paul was upset. Scratch that, Paul was furious. This wasn’t what he had expected at all! He had planned and schemed, he had prayed and had been sacrificed and had struck a deal with one of the gods themselves and yet—frustratingly, infuriatingly—Hardred still had the upper hand with _two_ Druids on his side. It wasn't fair! Wasn’t this exactly the scenario he had worked so hard to prevent?

He cared little for how gracefully he drew the lines, Paul was going to talk to Glapsvin one way or another. In a few minutes, he had drawn the summoning staves and lit the candles and poured out a glass of the man Foster’s fine whiskey and finished the chant.

Paul opened his eyes a crack when he heard nothing around him. Had it worked? It had worked before, but that was before his vocal cords (and a fair bit of his skull) had been flattened by the bog. Should he have done something different? Had he forgotten a step? Had his injured hand fumbled something crucial?

Glapsvin took a step out of the shadows and leaned down to take the glass of whiskey.

“You know, there are other ways of communication now.” He said amiably, knocking the alcohol back like it was water. “What do you want?”

“What in the name of The Nine was that?” Paul demanded. “You told me you would help me get my revenge, would help me kill Hardred once and for all! And not only was that _not_ him, look at this!” he said, holding up his skeleton of a hand. He wasn’t entirely sure how the bones were holding themselves together, let alone how he could still move them, but Paul wasn’t about to question it either. He could still feel pain from the exposed bones, he didn’t want to give the god a reason to demonstrate that further.

Glapsvin grinned from under his hat. That wasn’t a good sign. He took the opportunity to pour himself a second glass of whiskey. When he looked back at Paul, the smile was gone and he had a spark in his eye that made the man instinctively take a step back.

“Are you done?” Glapsvin asked in a tone that would freeze molten metal. “Good. You obviously need to re-read our agreement. If you’ll recall, our agreement was to tie you to the land your brother is buried in. I agreed to teach you offensive spells to give you the upper hand on your brother, who didn’t use magic himself. I said nothing about helping you specifically kill your brother, nor did I promise that you wouldn’t be hurt along the way. Do not presume to put words in my mouth again.” His tone of voice was calm and even, but Paul felt distinctly like he was eight years old again and in trouble with his head teacher.

“But that wasn’t Hardred!” Paul insisted. “It was someone else and he had Druids with him, two of them!”

Glapssvin shrugged. “That seems like quite the dilemma for you.”

“What should I do? Do you have any advice?” Paul asked after a beat.

“Don’t make non-specific deals with trickster gods.”


	22. In Which Talks Are Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winifred arrives in London and has a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks!  
> I'm on a bit of a roll, so have another (shorter than I expected) update! This is a bit of a setup chapter, like the last one was. It just seemed right to cut it off here. We'll see the outcomes of these a couple chapters from now.  
> In the meantime, enjoy!

The next day, Dr. Meaddows arrived in London early with Helman Tor Man. They headed straight to the National Museum, RT049 would need to be put into proper storage and Winifred needed to meet with Mr. May and Professor Hutton to see what they had been thinking for the exhibit.

When she got there, FM046 and JD051 must have both been put into storage to wait for their more permanent homes in the museum to be built. Tarps had been pulled over their designated gurneys in the Archaeology Department so the other bodies were out of sight. Surprisingly, Brian and Jim were also nowhere to be found.

Winifred knocked on the door of Dr. Glapsvin’s office. He was looking at a bronze spear point on his desk with a magnifying glass when she came in.

“Ah, Dr. Meaddows. How was your trip?” he asked, putting the artifact to one side and gesturing for her to sit down.

“It went well, thank you. Where are Mr. May and Professor Hutton? I was supposed to meet with them today to talk about the exhibit, but I haven’t been able to find either of them.”

Dr. Glapsvin looked at her blankly for half a second before his eyes widened in realization.

“You just came in, didn’t you? I’m so sorry, nobody must have told you yet! Brian is out sick today, Professor Hutton volunteered to keep an eye on him.” He explained, looking a bit worried.

“Out sick? Do you know what’s wrong?” she asked, now doubly worried. If it was bad enough to warrant Professor Hutton also calling out, Brian must be pretty badly off.

“The Professor said that he got very pale and almost passed out. He drove him home and—”

“Do you have Brian’s address? I’d like to check in on him too.” Winifred said, and Dr. Glapsvin smiled, giving it to her.

“RT049 is in storage with the other bodies, I’ll just pop by and make sure Brian’s alright. You really should give him more of a stipend, you know, he was skin and bones when he came to Cornwall! I’ll make sure he gets a square meal in and back on his feet.” She gently chided, standing up again. It was clear that the young man had made quite an impression when he went to visit. That was good; Brian had the potential to do great things.

* * *

When Dr. Meaddows had left for Kensington, Glapsvin headed for the Archaeology Department. It was simple work to ensure the other workers were conveniently in other parts of the building so he could talk with Helman Tor Man uninterrupted. There was much to be discussed and a fair bit to do.

This was going to be so much fun!


	23. In Which Brian's Social Circle Expands To Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winifred visits Brian at home, Brian gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, folks! It's still (technically) Brian's birthday, so have a Bri-heavy chapter! Hopefully I'll have a Roger-centric one to clear up the cliffhanger in time for his birthday next week!  
> Have I mentioned how much I love Winifred? I really love Winifred as a character.  
> Also, we hit?? 1000 hits???? I'm a little verklempt! Thanks to everyone who's given this a shot!  
> Anyhoo, enjoy!

Meanwhile, that morning found Freddie and John playing with Squeaky while Jim got some much-needed rest on the couch. They couldn’t properly pool their resources when Brian was dead to the world. Besides, Jim had mentioned a third bog body coming to the National Museum with a colleague of his. If the theory and the magic held true, they might be able to count on him in the inevitable fight too!

It had been nearly 12 hours since they had arrived at Brian’s apartment when there was a knock on the door. Freddie and John looked at each other. Should they…? Probably not. Freddie went to wake up Brian, he’d know what to do.

“Hrrmmm?” Brian said, grumbling a little as the sleep left him.

“Wake up! There’s someone at the door!” Freddie whispered loudly.

That got him up. Brian’s eyes went wide and he practically leapt out of bed.

“We’ve got to hide you!” he said, looking wildly around. “Get—uh—uh—get in the bed! Pretend to be asleep!”

Brian all but shoved Freddie and John onto his twin bed and covered them with his blanket before trying to prepare himself for another attack. It had to be Paul, who else could it be? Oh gods, what if it was the mailman or something? Brian felt his face go red with pre-emptive embarrassment. Better act natural, at least at the start.

“Hello? Can I—oh!”

It was Winifred at the door, looking relieved once she saw him.

“Brian! You’re alright!” she said, pushing inside to hug him. Brian’s so surprised, he lets her.

On the couch, Jim was waking up. “Brian? Who’sat?”

“Good morning, Professor Hutton! Goodness, it’s so messy in here! Are you _sure_ you’re okay, Brian?” Winifred asked, looking at him closely. “I heard you weren’t feeling well.”

“I’m fine now, thanks.” He replied, wilting under her scrutiny. “Just woke up, actually, how did you know where I live?”

Winifred smiled brightly and went to start cooking breakfast. Brian tried to help her as best he could while also blocking her view of the bed.

“Dr. Glapsvin told me—I hope you don’t mind too much, I was so worried when I heard you had collapsed.”

When he had collapsed? Oh, right. Brian did his best to look a bit embarrassed and to push the part of his brain that was shouting _‘does she know about Paul? Is she in danger? Has she led Paul to us? Does she know the truth about me? Or about John and Freddie?’_ to one side. If she knew anything more than she had said, Winifred was doing a very good job at hiding it.

“Oh, that… I—uh—” Gods help him, what was a plausible reason for all this? “Too many late nights, you know how it is. I’ll do better from now on, I promise.”

Winifred shot a glance over his shoulder and gave Brian a knowing smile.

“Of course, dear. Now, why don’t you wake up your friends over there and we can all eat together?”

Wait, what?

“My—uh—my friends?”

Shit, this was bad, how was Brian going to explain sentient, moving bog bodies?

“The ones under the blanket over there. I won’t judge you, don’t be shy!” Winifred called over, waving with a friendly smile. To Brian’s horror, Freddie pulled the blanket down and waved back.

 _“We’re not hungry, thank you!”_ he said, smiling as well. This brought a curious look to Winifred’s face. To Brian’s amazement, she replied in the same language.

 _“I’ll leave some in the icebox for you, then!”_ Winifred said cheerfully, starting to fry several slices of bacon in Brian’s pan. Her accent wasn’t terrible, Brian found himself more surprised about that than anything for a minute before it truly sunk in. If anything, it sounded _newer_ than the way Freddie or John spoke, though it had enough of the older language to still be recognizable.

“How did you know what he was saying?” he asked, looking between Winifred and Freddie and John, who had dropped the pretense and sat up. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“You boys aren’t the only ones with a chatty corpse in your museum. Helman Tor Man—or should I say, Roger—told me he spoke with you when you came to Cornwall. He’d tried to learn a few words in Modern English and seemed to be lonely, the poor dear. We’ve been talking to each other ever since.”

It all comes out then—well, not all of it, but most of it. The prophesied King and the bog, the traitorous brother who had his mind set on revenge, how John had been hastily buried in the King’s spot by accident, and why he had come back to life after nearly 2,500 years. Freddie and John filled in when they could, along with Jim, who had properly woken up by now and was trying to flatten his bedhead without a brush. Brian purposely left out his role in all of this, there was no reason to worry Winifred over something that couldn’t be helped in the first place.

They were halfway through breakfast when Brian’s phone rang. Freddie and John jumped along with Brian, though he went over to answer it.

“Hello, Brian May speaking. …I’m feeling much better; thank you, Dr. Glapsvin. …Uh huh, I could be, what’s happened?”

Winifred and the others watched as Brian’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows rose into his hairline.

“Yes, of course! I can be there in an hour, should I tell—right. Thank you, sir! We’ll get right out there!” Brian finished, now looking very excited. As soon as he put the phone down everyone let loose with their questions. Who was it? What did they want? What had gotten Brian so excited? He was breathless when he answered, starting with the last question.

“They’ve found another set of remains in your bog, John—and I think it’s King Hardred.”


	24. In Which Something Is Lost And Something Is Gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glapsvin talks with Roger; Winifred, Jim, and Brian go to see Hardred's remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on a roll today, so instead of waiting a whole week to post Roger's birthday chapter, here it is. More Prophet's Song, ahoy!  
> I'm salty about mechanical peat diggers, can you tell? They tore up the last bog body that was found (Cashel Man, back in 2011), though not to the extent shown in the chapter. That's a reference to the bog bodies Lindow I and II, which were discovered by workers who saw the head and foot (respectively) on the conveyor belt.   
> Also, I just want to thank everyone for nearly 200 comments, 60 kudos, and over 1,000 hits! That last one isn't really new, but I'm still blown away by it.   
> Anyhoo, enjoy this extra-long chapter!

Helman Tor Man felt himself being pulled out from storage. Try as he might, the younger man was finding it difficult to stay perfectly still. Roger’s nose was itchy. He really wanted to scratch it, but he also knew he hadn’t just wheeled himself out, someone else was in the room with him.

_God, that was annoying._

Was that Winifred, the nice lady?

_Maybe one little scratch wouldn’t hurt._

Roger slowly brought a hand up the side of his body, inch by inch, until finally— _finally—_ he rubbed his nose. It was dusty in the archives, this reminded him of why he liked being on display.

And then someone cleared his throat. It was definitely a man, or at least a woman with a very deep voice. In any case, it wasn’t Winifred.

_Shit._

Roger forced himself to freeze in place.

“I already saw you moving, boy. Open your eyes and see.”

Definitely not Winifred, then. Roger opened his eyes a crack to see who it was and would have fallen over if he hadn’t already been lying down. After a thousand years and change, the last thing Roger expected to see was a familiar face— _though_ , his brain supplied, whirring away at approximately 500 miles an hour, _if he was going to recognize anyone, he should hope he recognized the face of one of his gods_.

* * *

Brian told Freddie and John to stay put in his apartment while he took Jim and Winifred to the archaeological dig site. It wasn’t far away, just enough time to fill them in on the importance of this find. If King Hardred was found intact—which he should be, considering the heavy-duty spells they put on the bog—then they wouldn’t have to worry about Paul anymore. Hardred would fight Paul, Hardred would (probably, most likely, definitely) win, and they could get back to their regular lives.

It was only when they got to the dig that Brian’s heart sank. A group of people stood around, looking and pointing at something laying on the ground while a mechanical peat digger idled nearby.

The trio got out of Brian’s car and went to look at the remains. “Remains” was the right word—it couldn’t really be called a body anymore. The mechanical digger had torn up the body so it was primarily a well-preserved but severed head and a foot lying on a pile of peat.

Winifred and Jim knelt down to look more closely at the head, but Brian was frozen in place. Would the spells still apply if the body was destroyed? Hardred obviously wouldn’t be able to fight Paul now. Maybe he could give advice (Brian resolved to ask Freddie when they got back), but it was up to them to stop Paul now.

* * *

 _“Can I help you?”_ Roger asked, proud of the fact that he had managed to keep his voice steady.

 _“It isn’t so much what you can do for me as it is what I can do for you.”_ Wodaz replied, smiling widely in a way that made Roger instinctively remember one of the stories he had been taught as a child. Wodaz and his wife had each raised a human child, and let them go back to the World of Men when they were the same age. One child had grown up to be a King, while the other was a servant; and the King had grown up to be a bad host—something that Wodaz took quite seriously. When he had come in disguise to bring gifts, the King had Wodaz imprisoned as a potential traitor and refused to give him food or drink for eight days. On the ninth morning, the servant had brought Wodaz a small cup of mead—and had been given the kingdom by an act of divine regicide in return.

Whatever he wanted, Roger knew he had to accept. Wodaz’s one eye stared down at him as he explained about Brian and John and Paul. The story of murder and revenge was a familiar one to Roger, a version had filtered down over the years to his time—albeit slightly different from the true original. After he had gotten Roger caught up, Wodaz reached into his cloak (Winifred probably would have called it a cardigan, but all long, warm, woolen garments were cloaks to Roger) and pulled out a pair of rough-looking carved sticks. They were long and thin, with a “head” on one end (almost to mimic a very small, blunt arrowhead), and one of them had an old-style rune carved into the shaft. Roger took the offered sticks, turning them over in his hands.

 _“What are they?”_ he asked, looking back up to the god in front of him.

_“They’re called ‘drum sticks’. You’ll need them in the fight ahead.”_

Roger held one in each hand for a moment, looking at how they fit perfectly in his palms, then looked up again. _“But what are they for?”_

Wodaz smiled conspiratorially. _“You’ll know when the time comes. Remember to say ‘God give me grace to purge this place’ and peace all around will be your fortune, among other rewards.”_ He glanced towards the doors and started to push Roger back where he had found him in the storage room. _“Remember, not a word of this until the time is right, you’ll know it when it comes. Brian will be back soon, so…”_ he said, pulling a tarp over Roger’s body.


	25. In Which We Set Up The Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and John discover modern problems, and try ancient solutions. Brian, Jim, and Winifred finish making their discovery. Roger spills the beans. (Hi, I'm not dead!!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: My name is John Richard Deacon and I was born on--  
> Me, crawling out of my depression on a ladder made of jokes: AugusT THE 19TH 1951!!!  
> I'm back, folks! Sorry it took so long, things have been a bit up and down lately, but I think they're taking a turn for the better now! Anyhoo, given my track record as of late, I don't think I'll have another update ready by the time John's actual birthday rolls around (though I'll try!) so here's this! I hope wherever John is, he's having a good day.  
> This is the beginning of the end, folks! There's only going to be a couple more chapters after this, dealing with the fight and a short epilogue--probably 2-4 in total.   
> In other news, this chapter contains another of my plot seeds for this fic: someone from the past not knowing what to do with a stove and trying to go back to basics. Enjoy!

Freddie and John sat on the floor, looking in awe. The large box Winifred had said she was putting the food in was _cold_. It was actually cold, even when the air around it stayed warm!

“How does it work?” John asked. Freddie usually knew these sorts of mysterious things, he was good at that.

“Winifred called it an _ice-box_ , but I don’t see any ice… It must be magic.” Freddie said, reaching up inside and taking down the plate Winifred had put the leftovers on. 

“Cold… They’re actually cold, John! It _must_ be magic! And so quickly too, there's no other way!”

Freddie sat the plate on the floor between them. Neither of them closed the icebox door, it was rather warm in Brian's apartment, despite being in the basement. After all, if they didn’t have to be uncomfortable, why should they be? John looked at the icebox a minute longer, vowing to one day unlock its secrets, before shifting his gaze to Freddie and the bacon and eggs on the plate.

“How do we warm it back up?”

* * *

Brian helped Jim and Winifred catalogue and meticulously record the remains on autopilot. He was a little angry at himself, if he was being honest. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. If his life was going to be easy, John wouldn’t have been killed all those years ago. They could have made a life together, could have grown old and had a long and happy life in times gone by.

“Brian, we should wrap this up for the lab, don’t you think?” Jim asked, snapping Brian out of his thoughts. He was holding a sheet of plastic and Winifred had a stiffened board for transport.

“Right. Yes, we should. Sorry about that, what do you need me to do?”

Together, they collected all the sections of remains and the surrounding bog they laid in for stability and shifted them one by one onto the board. Jim wrapped the whole thing in plastic to prevent everything from drying out. Even if Hardred was going to be effectively useless in the coming fight, he didn’t deserve to wither into nothingness.

They took the remains back to the museum, and Winifred and Jim were working on the Official Report on the dig when a thought hit Brian—John and Freddie were still back at his apartment! They needed to be in the museum, or else he needed to be with them, to make sure they’d be safe if Paul tried to attack during the day.

Brian made his excuses and drove back to his apartment, trying to think of a way to smuggle the two highly public archaeological artifacts into the museum during business hours without anybody noticing them.

When he got to the car park near his flat, he noticed faint traces of smoke trailing out of his window. Brian parked quickly and all but ran to see what was wrong. Had Paul attacked? Were Freddie and John okay? What was on fire?

When Brian flung open the door, a strange sight met him inside.

Freddie and John were sitting in the middle of his sitting room, on the floor. They had cleared the rugs away from the concrete and had somehow broken down and lit most of one of his ugliest wooden kitchen chairs on fire. (The part of Brian that was Brys was impressed at their ability to keep a fire contained in a space that clearly wasn’t intended for it. The part that was Brian knew his security deposit had just gone out the window along with the smoke.)

“What are you doing?” Brian demanded, shutting the door and grabbing a pot lid to smother the flames. “You can’t light fires indoors, these houses aren’t meant for that! You could have _died_ —or, well, I’m not sure whether you _can_ die, but what about the people who live upstairs? You could have burned the whole building down!”

Freddie and John had the decency to look ashamed as Brian put out their cooking fire. The eggs had been put back onto the skillet and re-heated over the flames in the only way they knew how, and had been just about done when Brian had come in. They ate quickly while Brian filled them in on everything that had happened at the dig.

“You mean to tell me that King Hardred the Just is a severed head now?” Freddie asked incredulously. “After all the work we’ve done? And he’s _still_ a severed head?”

Brian grimaced and nodded. “Do you think the spells will still hold?” he asked, looking through his closet. “He might be able to give advice, even if he can’t fight.”

“I’d have to see him myself, but it’s possible. What are you doing?” Freddie said with a shrug and curious look at Brian.

“That’s what I hoped you’d say. We have to get back to the museum. Hardred’s there, and it’s more defensible if Prenter attacks again. You can’t just walk in, though, people know what you look like. So, we have to disguise you two somehow.”

Half an hour later saw Freddie and John walking into the museum in modern clothing. John’s hair was pulled up under a baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses covered the top half of his face. Brian’s trousers were all too long for John to not trip over, so he had put on a pair of platform boots to make up the height. Freddie had to be physically restrained from wearing all of Brian’s flashiest clothes at once, so he was sulking in a plain sweater-and-denim combination that would hide the dry gash in his throat. Their actual clothes were carefully folded in a bag that went on Brian’s back for the short walk from the apartment to the car, and from the car to the back of the archaeology department.

Thankfully, nobody stopped or questioned the trio, although Brian didn’t relax until Freddie and John looked like their normal selves again.

* * *

When he heard voices, Helman Tor Man pushed at the tarp covering him so that his head and upper torso were exposed. He recognized Brian’s (Brys’?) voice as soon as he came through the doors and something inside him knew—now was the right moment. There were two other voices too, but Roger wasn’t concerned about their secret getting out. One of them he recognized as John’s, which meant that the other one must be the second Druid Wodaz told him about.

Brian went over to Roger when he saw the other man moving. He was flailing around under the tarp until he emerged, looking wildly around.

“Brian! He was here!” Roger said, locking eyes on the other man.

“Who was here? What did he look like?” Brian asked, dreading the answer. Had Paul come back? Or did Roger somehow recognize King Hardred?

“An old man wearing gray clothes and a wide-brimmed hat. One of his eyes wouldn’t move, like it had been replaced with glass, except it still looked like an eye. He told me to tell you something.”

Brian looked back at Freddie to confirm what he thought he had just heard. Freddie’s eye was wide with surprise too (although, the part of him that was Brys whispered, a museum was the obvious place for a god with an obsession with knowledge to be).

“Wotan was here?” “What did he say?” Freddie and Brian asked, interrupting each other.

Roger’s eyes glazed over a little and when he spoke, it was like he didn’t have complete control over his mouth.

“Listen to this warning: The Prince Estranged will come this night under the moonlit star. Hear and mark these words well—there is still time to prepare, and death may not come for all of you.”


	26. In Which We See Behind The Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack! We're nearly to the final battle, but I'm not exactly the best at writing fight scenes, soooooooo have another flashback!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, I'm not dead! I got a job, things are much more stable now, and guess what? I've got time to write!  
> I need to figure out how to write a fight scene, but it'll happen sooner or later, and I'm determined to finish this!  
> For now, welcome back and enjoy!

The Gods are not infallible. Wodaz, Grimnir, Glapsvin, Odin—whichever name you chose to use, he knew that all too well. He knew there was no stopping the Apocalypse at the End of The World, and yet he still held out hope. Maybe it could be put off for as long as possible, averting Ragnarok by perpetually re-scheduling it for the next week until Skuld called the whole thing off—as unlikely as that was.

Odin was many things, but unprepared wasn’t one of them. Many years ago, at the Dawn of Time itself, he (along with his brothers, not that he’d mention them if he was telling the story and they were out of earshot) had created the First Man and First Woman out of an ash and an elm tree, and he’d still be around when the Last Man and Last Woman fell in the Final Battle.

Somewhere between those two dates, he had done some experimenting with Seidr, the dangerous magic of strong words and stronger emotions that lead to unshakable consequences. The rush of Power that came after the Release was dizzying and addictive and it gave Odin hope that it could give his side an advantage over the chaos and darkness (somehow, it never occurred to him that his side might be the one that needed to be defeated in the end).

He was already amassing an army of dead soldiers to fight for him, which would be excellent against other incorporeal Dead, but what if the Other Side had more variety in their troops? What if they had Living, or witches of their own, or some other kind of soldier that Odin hadn’t heard of?

He didn’t know who was on the Other Side, which made it more difficult to prepare for, but not impossible. Soon, a solution presented itself in the form of a rather excellent mortal king, told to him by a Celtic friend of his.

The Morrigan was an old acquaintance of his. They had met on one of his journeys across the realm and had immediately gotten into a fight about the difference between ravens and crows, and which was better. Once the dust had settled, they were thick as thieves.

She told him about a king who was as effective in the debate hall as he was on the battlefield, and the locals had been praying for some way for him to protect him from beyond the grave. Together, they created a series of rituals for the more experienced Druids to perform and handed their respective parts over to the high priests. They took a few days off after that, catching up and telling tall tales until the wee hours, until Odin caught a telltale whiff of revenge in the air.

The Gods are not infallible. The young man wanted revenge against his dead (or soon-to-be dead) brother and Odin, in his eternal quest to fuck around and find out, had most of a pre-mortem necromantic ritual.

He might be friends with The Morrigan now, but who’s to say they still would be by the time Ragnarok arrived? Odin wanted—no, needed—to know if _most_ of the ritual was _enough_ of the ritual to work. He could wait to see the results. He had all the time in the world.

The Gods are not infallible, and neither was the ritual. Where Paul had ben very interested in revenge against his brother, it had become his sole desire and driving force. Having no obvious conclusion for his revenge could only spell disaster for Paul and everyone connected to him. That included his brother, for sure, but also John, Brys, Freddie, Roger, and Odin himself.

Somehow, somewhere, he was sure that The Morrigan was laughing at him.


End file.
